


L'air heureux

by Rebecca



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Community: slashthedrabble, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unbeta'd, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebecca/pseuds/Rebecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings receives a Valentine's day card from an unknown admirer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'air heureux

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Air" challenge at slashthedrabble@LJ.

"Ah, _mon ami_, you have the air happy," observed Poirot.

"Why yes," I said. "I've received a Valentine's day card. Quite unexpectedly, I must say, which makes it all the more exciting."

Poirot nodded. "I see. For a romantic such as yourself, this must be quite gratifying."

I laughed. "Come on, Poirot! Let me bask in the feeling while it lasts, now will you? Hm. I wonder who might have sent it...?"

"As I understand, the mystery, it is part of the excitement, is it not?"

"I guess so. But still..." I grinned. "What about I try to employ my little grey cells?"

"The idea, she could have been from me." Poirot said approvingly.

"Well," I began. "The letter was posted yesterday, in London. The address is written with a typewriter. Very unusual. As if the sender was afraid I would recognise her handwriting, which means that I know her well."

I dropped the envelope and picked up the card.

"The card doesn't have any personal inscription, it was just left as it had been bought."

Following a sudden idea, I rose the card to my nose and sniffed at it. To my disappointment, it didn't smell of perfume, or anything else for that matter.

"The motive is quite common," I continued, a little disheartened. "I have seen dozens of these in the shops."

I was about to give up, thinking that I should really just enjoy the spirit of Valentine's day, when I suddenly remembered something distinctive about the card. I opened it again, and there it was, staring me in the face: 'Sois mon valentin.'

French! How many people I knew would choose to send me a French card? I goggled at Poirot, who beamed innocently at me. Could it be...? Surely I must have been mistaken; Poirot would never send a Valentine's day card, let alone to me. Or maybe he would, to cheer me up, knowing that I would never find out, or to make fun of me?

The way my heart was pounding, though, there was no denying the fact that I would have liked to receive an earnest Valentine from Poirot, however absurd the idea might be.

"So, my dear Hastings, have you come to a conclusion?" asked Poirot.

"I'm not sure..." I murmured and dropped my gaze, feeling myself blush.

When I looked up again, wasn't there a mischievous twinkle in Poirot's eyes?


End file.
